


Atelophobia and Arabesques

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Theatre, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bisexual John, Caring John, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Insecure Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, John Plays Rugby, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Metaphors, Mock Awards, Mock Awards based on Character Traits, Nervous Sherlock, Performing Arts, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, References to Supernatural (TV), Rugby Captain John, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock Loves John, Stage Crew, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a LOT of references, ballet!lock, like really really bisexual, tech crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes takes ballet very seriously. He has an audition lined up with the Royal Academy of Dance, and he's willing to do anything to get the position, and be absolutely perfect, even run himself into the ground.</p><p>John Watson has something to say about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atelophobia and Arabesques

**Author's Note:**

> Atelophobia - The fear of imperfection.
> 
> Hello everyone! Soooooo, I know I said I wouldn't be posting for a while, but I got some really good inspiration, so, here I am!! 
> 
> Anyway, so, let's talk about Mock Awards! These are incredibly fun and they're done on the very last night of a production. Basically, everyone gets together and writes a mock award for each other, and it's literally just to have fun, none of them are serious. 
> 
> And, as always, I love you all! Enjoy! 
> 
> Stevie

When it came to Sherlock Holmes' priority list, it went ballet, his audition for the Royal Academy of Dance, and his position as principle dancer in his company's production, in that exact order. His whole life was centered around his ballet career, which most people thought incredible for a seventeen and half year old genius. His drive for perfection had made him somewhat famous amongst his colleagues, and he knew that behind his back, they called him things 'vain', 'self-obsessed', and on days he became really snippy and rude, 'freak'.

But, he never paid any mind.

His priority list was filled with the top three things he cared about in the world.

Of course, if he thought about it, he could very well add a forth.

The school's rugby captain, and the production's main stagehand, John Watson. The blonde haired, blue eyed, strong as a bull and more charming than a film star boy who had joined the company's stage crew three years prior. He was sweet and charismatic, almost like he carried sunshine around with him wherever he walked. He was positively wonderful, and Sherlock was positively smitten.

Of course, John didn't know that. Well, _no one_ knew that. No one even knew that Sherlock was gay, though he was sure that they were guessing.

John, however, was _incredibly_ bisexual, winning the hearts of both boys and girls at school, in the production, and basically anywhere he went. He wore his sexuality like a badge of honor, even going as far as to wearing a bisexual flag around his shoulders like a cape at rehearsals during the entirety Pride Week. He had looked utterly ridiculous, of course, dressed all in black (the standard tech uniform), a large, bulky headset on his head while he sat perched up on the fly rail behind stage manager Molly Hooper with his pride-cape wrapped around him like a blanket while he stuffed his face with Oreos. He looked like an idiot, but, Sherlock would have been lying if he said that it wasn't goddamn adorable.

After that one show, Sherlock considered asking John Watson out, but after careful consideration, he decided against it.

It wasn't like he hadn't had interaction with John Watson before, the two had talked on more than one occasion, mainly about little things, with John being Molly's self-proclaimed Second-in-Command, he interacted with the dancers quite a lot, and Sherlock even more so, as he was the principle dancer. But, of course, it was always about the show, just little things like that. It was never more than that.

He had, on one occasion, completely by accident, shared a deep heart-to-heart with the stagehand, though he never meant to.

** _____________ **

The snow crunched under Sherlock's feet as he crept up to the school. It was early, the sun had barely risen, but he had been too restless not to just show up and practice. He had to. He _had_ to.

He had been informed that instead of auditioning for judges, the scouts for the Royal Academy of Dance were going to be at his performance in a few months, which had only increased his anxiety and drive by one hundred and fifty percent. He would dance until his feet bled, then he would come home and dance some more. He slept very little. His marks had actually fluctuated very briefly because of the pressure, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't get it perfect. He had to practice. He had to get it _right._

Mrs. Hudson, the instructor, had given him a key to the theater so that he could practice, because she knew about his audition, and with a dancer as brilliant as Sherlock was, she knew there was no point in arguing. He unlocked the door and slid inside through the tiniest crack of the door, already shedding the layers of his clothing. He was already in his dancing gear, so, he ran as quickly as he could to the stage, water bottle and phone in hand so that he could hook it up to the speaker. The stage was relatively dark, but it was better for his concentration is the lights were dimmer.

With his phone plugged in, and the music beginning to play, he took a deep breath, and began.

His dancing had once been described by a generous patron as "dazzling", "extraordinary", and "like watching a galaxy form in front of one's eyes", and the words had stuck with him for his entire career, only allowing him to better his dancing every single day. He left and flew through the air like he were weightless and had wings, and when he slid and glided across the floor, he could hear the words echo in his mind. He felt like a swan, or some sort of angel, and no matter how conceited the words sounded, when Sherlock danced, he felt free.

He danced through the entire first movement easily, and stopped only briefly to catch his breath and drink some water from his bottle that sat against the floor. He would keep going as long as he had to before rehearsal.

"Jesus _Christ."_

Sherlock nearly choked on his water when he heard the voice. He whipped around so quickly, he nearly fell, and when he lay eyes on John Watson, who had taken a seat on the front row, his heart nearly stopped.

John shook his head as he let out a soft laugh that sounded a bit breathless. "I mean, I knew you could dance, I've seen you through the curtains enough bloody times, but... God, that was amazing. Have you ever _seen_ yourself dance?"

The dancer blinked. "What are _you_ doing here?" He all but snarled. How _dare_ John Watson see him like this, covered in sweat and panting like an idiot while he sat there with his stupid grin and sparkling eyes and perfect, disheveled blonde hair.

"Working. Well, I'm supposed to be. I heard music, so I came to see what was up. Count yourself lucky, I was going to kick you out."

Sherlock glared and locked his jaw. "I'd like to see you try."

John laughed. "I'll keep my distance, then." He sat back in his seat, not once taking his eyes off of Sherlock. "So, what are you doing here this early?" He asked, his voice sounding a little too flirtatious for Sherlock's liking.

"What does it look like I'm doing? An autopsy?"

"I meant why, you berk."

Sherlock sighed, trying to make it sound as annoyed as he wished he sounded. "Because, I have an audition for the Royal Academy of Dance, and the scouts are coming to watch me in a few months for the actual performance, so I need to practice."

"You still have months before the performance, though." John argued.

The dancer rolled his eyes. "This audition is my whole future, and I will not let anything mess it up." He growled.

John blinked. "Is this all you do? Dance?"

"It's all I _need_ to do. If I'm good enough at it, I'll get into the Royal Ballet. I know I'm good, now, I just have to be great."

"You _are_ great."

"Not great enough. Not yet."

John Watson was suddenly looking at him strangely, and Sherlock suddenly felt like a bug under his microscope. The stagehand narrowed his eyes. "I see you during school. During lunch, you don't eat, you do school work. You're always the first one in the studio after school, and you're always the last one to leave. All of this cannot be good for you. Do you ever just... Take a break?"

And just like that, Sherlock's calm composure shattered. He was suddenly furious, and it took everything he had not to throw his bottle of water at John. "This is my entire life, so no, I do not, and will not _'just take a break'."_

"Okay, okay, take it easy, mate." John protested as he waved the boy off. "I'm just saying, all of that pressure on you, it can't be good for your mind. I see you out here, and you're an absolutely amazing dancer, but you need to let yourself come up for air once in a while so that you don't drown."

"You just think that because you don't understand. I'm fine."

John gave him a doubtful look. "You really think so? I've seen people do the same thing you're doing to yourself right now with school work or sports, and it doesn't always lead to the Emerald City."

"Your analogies are insufferable, for the love of God." Sherlock shot back.

The rugby player threw his head back and laughed. "I thought you performer kids always loved them, being so dramatic and all."

Sherlock could only glare.

Once the smile died down, John Watson looked down at his feet, and sighed. "Look... All I'm trying to say, mate, is that you should give yourself a break before you break yourself."

"The performance world is blood, sweat, and tears, and if I can't take it, I have no business being a part of it. You have to be ruthless, and you have to be perfect. If I'm not perfect, I have no business being a part of it either. I will practice until I'm perfect, and I am no where near that point yet. If I'm not good enough, they won't accept me. I have to be _perfect._ I don't expect you to understand." Sherlock's voice was like a dripping poison, and though he very much wanted to hate John Watson for trying to make him stop, he couldn't bring himself to do it. _Emotions betraying you again, Sherlock?_ His brother's voice rang in his head.

John suddenly looked sad, for a reason that was unbeknownst to Sherlock. He bit at the inside of his mouth, but said nothing more. Instead, he got to his feet, and took a deep breath. "I have to get to work. Just... Take care of yourself, okay? Good luck on your audition." He uttered before walking up the isle, and out the auditorium doors.

Sherlock watched after him, unsure of what to say. There was no way that John Watson could possibly be right. He was _fine._ He was _always_ fine. He knew his limit, he knew when he _needed_ to sleep or rest, and he always took a minute to breathe. He was absolutely _fine._ John Watson was just an idiot.

_No, he isn't. You're just mad because he's right._

He shook the stupid thoughts from his head, and turned back toward his phone so that he could keep dancing. He tried to ignore the blonde head that was only slightly visible on the balcony under the back stage lights of the spot booth.

** _____________ **

The letter had finally arrived.

One month after the start of the performance, the letter from the Royal Academy of Dance came in.

Sherlock had been waiting too long for the letter to come.

He didn't dare open it.

He wanted to wait until he was safe outside the studio.

Sherlock sat on the bench outside the studio, staring down at the envelope in his hands. His own name seemed to be burning the thick paper, and it felt red hot against his fingertips. His entire body was shaking, and he was so desperately trying to tell himself that it was because of the cool weather, but he knew he was only lying to himself.

Eventually, after trying as hard as he could, he took a deep breath, and with trembling hands, he opened the letter.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_We are very please to inform you that-_

Sherlock couldn't fucking _breathe._

He couldn't breathe, and then suddenly he could, but he was breathing too hard, and-"

"Hey, Sherlock!"

The dancer's heart stopped.

_No. Not him. Not now._

Sherlock looked up at the smiling blonde haired rugby player with a blank expression. "What do you want?" He asked, trying to sound rude, but only sounding mousey and ridiculous.

John laughed. "Hello to you, too. What are you doing out here?"

"Um... Nothing. Just sitting." The dancer lied.

"Getting away from the people inside?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. They do exhausted me."

"I bet." John's eyes then dropped to the letter in the dancer's lap, then suddenly widened. His jaw dropped. "Holy... Holy shit, Sherlock, is that... Is that your letter from RAD? Did you get in?" He demanded, suddenly excited.

Sherlock's face turned an awful shade of red. "No, no, it's nothing. It's... Nothing." He quickly jumped to his feet. "I have to go practice. I'll see you at Mock Awards tonight. Bye, John." He mumbled before turning away from the stagehand.

Before heading back into the studio, he crumpled up the letter, and threw it in the garbage.

** _____________ **

The end of a performance was always emotional for everyone, mostly the oldest students that were leaving for uni, but, to take away from the tears and goodbyes, after every production, the dancers, the stage crew, and the pit all got together for an after-party where they presented ridiculous Mock Awards for everyone.

Sherlock Holmes, because of his pure distaste for being around anyone for extended periods of time, never went. Or, if he did, he always left early.

This time, however, he was going to stay for the entire thing. He had not made up any of them (he had stayed out of the committee, though it was supposed to be all Year 13 students in the production), but, he decided it was best to go. Even if it was just once. He knew he wouldn't have to talk to anyone.

He hated to admit that he was only there for John Watson.

He wasn't even sure what he was expecting to see.

His Mock Awards had always been stupid an uncreative, usually having to do with his intelligence, his silver tongue, or his rudeness. Molly had always given him his a few days after the production, since he never went, and he had always read the flashy, decorative paper with a scowl before throwing it away. He could only imagine what he would get this year.

Sherlock didn't actually start paying attention until the Year 13 students started getting theirs. He didn't care about the others.

Molly Hooper, the stage manager, received hers first from Irene Adler. She was a sweet and quiet girl who was always way too nice and was always smiling and encouraging everyone. She received the Asshole Award. Sherlock had scoffed a bit at that.

Dimmock, the member of pit who played cello and who Sherlock could never remember the first name of, received the You Should Stick To Football Award, because, according to the rest of the pit, he was... Just terrible. Sherlock agreed. So did Dimmock himself.

Janine Hawkins, his girlfriend who was a dancer, who had presented his award, received the Go The Fuck To Sleep Award from Molly, which had something to do with her being the only one up at four in the morning at an all-girl sleepover at Irene's... Or something. Sherlock had tuned it out.

Phill Anderson, also in pit, received the Where's Waldo? Award, because apparently he was never there.

Sally Donovan, Anderson's girlfriend in stage crew, received the Hottest Sex Tape in the UK Award for something that made her turn bright, bright, _bright_ fucking red.

Greg Lestrade, Molly's boyfriend who was also in crew, received the Cockblock Award, for... Apparently being the one to catch Sally and Anderson in the prop's room. (Hence her Hottest Sex Tape Award).

Irene Adler, the other principle dancer in the ballet, received the Head Bitch In Charge Award from John Watson, because... Well, even Sherlock thought that it was self explanatory. Irene had laughed and skipped over to John without a care in the world, only to snatch the paper from his hands and jump away like the queen she was. Sherlock tried to contain his eye roll.

Jim Moriarty, another dancer, was given the Norman Bates Award, for... Something, Sherlock wasn't exactly sure. But, he had laughed.

Mary Morston, another pit member, received the Femme Fatale Award, and she had taken it pretty well.

Sebastian Moran, Jim's not-so-secret-boyfriend and another member of crew, received the Dean Winchester Award. _Whatever the fuck that means._  Sherlock thought.

Mike Stamford from pit got the Cupid Award, and Sherlock had missed the story behind that too, but he had received it from John, which was the only thing Sherlock was sure of.

Sarah Sawyer, another ballet dancer, received the Mom Award, and Sherlock didn't care to listen to that story either. He only cared about one award that hadn't been given yet.

When Irene stepped up to give John's his, Sherlock sat forward in his seat.

John Watson's was ridiculous, but hilarious. He received the Sugar Daddy Award from Irene, because 'Lord have mercy, he's like Adonis and George Clooney had a baby'. Irene's exact words were probably the best thing Sherlock had heard all night. He laughed and laughed, and when he saw John Watson was laughing just as hard as he was, he didn't let himself stop.

Right before Sherlock was ready to get out of there, John stood up to give another award, and Sherlock decided to wait a moment. He could spare a few more seconds.

"So," John began slowly, the paper in his hand crinkling slightly, and it was suddenly easy to see that his hand was trembling a bit. "This is... Not really a mock award at all, but I do feel I need to give this one out. This is a really important award to me, so, as your Captain, I'm going to give it out now." There was a rumble of laughter from the group, and a small, but nervous looking smile from John. "So, there's this guy in the ballet, and he's a bloody fantastic dancer, for one. He's the best I've ever seen."

Sherlock suddenly sat up a little straighter. _He can't possibly mean you. Don't get your hopes up._

"This guy, you know, he's also known for being a bit of a prick, but, he's damn good, and I think he has a right. He's funny, and quick witted, and fucking brilliant as all hell, without a doubt, and I know I've said this a few times, he's so good at ballet, it makes me want to cry just watching him, I'm serious."

_He is most definitely not talking about you._

Sherlock was practically leaning on the table with eager excitement and bitter curiosity. There were only a handful of Year 13 students left, most of which he had never learned the names of, and he didn't know enough about them to pick one. He wanted to know, he wanted to know so badly, but the underlining ache of knowing it wouldn't be him... He tried his best to push it away, and continued to watch the stagehand.

John's smile suddenly changed from humorous to affectionate, and possibly a little bit sad, and it almost broke the dancer's heart. "I wished I had made an effort to talk to him more over the course of the years I knew him, but, I never did, and I regret that now. But, I found out one day after one of the rare occasions I spoke to him, that he was really, really hard on himself when it came to his dancing, like he wasn't good enough, he wasn't good enough, and it broke my heart, because I don't really think that he ever saw how amazing he really was."

Sherlock's heart skipped.

"Today, I found out that this boy had been accepted to the Royal Academy of Dance, and I found the acceptance letter in the garbage outside. I didn't know what to say when I found out, I was so overwhelmed with excitement, because he made it. He fucking _made it._ He did it, and I don't know why he threw the letter away, but I was so amazed, I couldn't just keep it to myself. If I had made more of an effort to talk to this kid, I would have told him from the beginning, but, I think that this needs to be said in front of everyone."

There was a pause, and the rugby player's eyes, for a split second, locked with Sherlock's from across the room.

Sherlock was absolutely frozen.

John Watson, on the other hand, was smiling, and perhaps a bit misty eyed. "I'll say his name in a moment, but, I just want to take a moment to tell him that I know that he's nervous about next year, and I know that he doesn't think he's going to be good enough, but I want to tell him that he is. He _is_ good enough, he's better than enough, and I'm so, so, so proud of him, for everything he's done. So, to Sherlock Holmes," He held up the paper. "I am honored to present the You're Going To Be Okay Award."

The whole room erupted into applause and all eyes were on the lone ballet dancer in the back of the room.

All eyes, including John Watson's.

John Watson was smiling proudly over at Sherlock from across the room, like there was no one there but the two of them, and Sherlock suddenly couldn't breathe. His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest, he couldn't even hear himself think, and before he could even register the fact that he had begun to walk, his legs carried him to the front of the room, and then, he was in front of the smiling rugby captain while the others looked on from around them.

"Thanks for everything, you berk." John said, handing the piece of paper over.

Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling as though his face were melting off. He took the paper, and tried to smile, as just to appear like he could function normally for a moment.

When John pulled him in for a hug, the wind was knocked from his lungs again, and his mind went blank except for everything he could take in and catalogue in the seconds (too many of them) that the hug lasted. John smelled like crisp London air and warm tea, and some sort of cologne that he couldn't remember the name of for the life of him. He could feel the roll of John's muscles as the captain hugged him tighter, which made his knees almost weak. _This fucking boy needs to either leave or stop giving me heart trouble before I drop dead._ Sherlock thought almost bitterly. _Of course, that wouldn't be too bad right now._

The embrace finally ended, and Sherlock slunk away, ignoring the 'congrats, mate' comments that came from his peers as he walked past. He sat back down at his day, and read, then re-read the stupid, meaningless award he had received.

_You're Going To Be Okay Award, presented by John Watson._

Sherlock tried to scoff. He thought it was ridiculous. But, there was something about the stupid sentiment of it that he couldn't shake, and while he tried to hate the story and the message and the award itself, he very, very secretly adored it with all his heart.

He quickly noticed there was a light ink shadow under his name from something being written in pen on the flip side of the paper, so, he turned it over. On the flip side of the paper, in John Watson's scrawled handwriting, there was a short note.

_Call me sometime. -JW_

Underneath that, there was a phone number.

John Watson's phone number.

John Watson had left him his phone number.

Unless it was a mistake.

 _It has to be._ Sherlock thought. _John must have written it for someone else, and accidentally wrote it on my paper. That's all it is. I should tell him._

Reluctantly, Sherlock decided to stay until the end. He knew he had to inform the rugby captain of his mistake.

He only wished that he hadn't already memorized the number.

** ______________  **

Miraculously, he managed to tune out the rest of the celebratory noise, ignore the tearful speeches from the dancer teachers and the tech director, and most importantly, keep his thoughts completely off of John Watson.

Well, almost completely.

Finally, everyone started getting up to leave, and Sherlock managed to slink outside where he decided to wait for John. It was best to get it over with.

John came out by himself, with his rugby jacket already on, his backpack thrown over one shoulder, and his smile bright as he spotted Sherlock by the door. "I was hoping you would be out here." He said.

 _He was?_ "I uh... I think you may have made a mistake." Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Oh?"

The dancer nodded. "You wrote your phone number on the back of my award-thing and told me to call you. Obviously that wasn't meant for me, so, I thought I'd tell you." He spit out all in the same sentence.

John did a double take, then narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think that note wasn't for you?" He asked.

"Why would you want _me_ to call you?"

The stagehand shrugged. "Well, for starters, I want to take you out." He replied nonchalantly.

Sherlock froze. His mouth went dry. "You want to take me out? Like... Like a date?" He stuttered.

"That's kind of what 'take you out' means."

He tried to be mad at the joking tone in John's voice.

"B-but, why me?"

John Watson gave him an honest smile. "Because, you're gorgeous, talented, and I kinda have a weakness for brunettes with big green eyes."

Sherlock's face felt terribly red again. He was unsure if he should say yes or not. He wanted to, honestly, he really did, but, he almost didn't want to risk it. "You won't like me outside of this place. Trust me, it's not worth it." He offered weakly.

"Could I maybe decide that for myself?" He asked, a hopeful grin pulling at his mouth.

The dancer stepped back. "Just... Trust me. I'm a bit of a dick." _At least, that's what they tell me, though they're probably right._

John scoffed. "Nonsense. You're perfect."

Sherlock's heart skipped. _Perfect. John Watson thinks I'm perfect._ He quickly remembered the first real conversation he ever had with John Watson, and everything he said about being perfect, and, without a warning, he felt his features soften as a rosy pink blush crept over his cheeks. He dropped his gaze. "Thank you, by the way. That was... What you said about me, that was... It was good. Thank you."

"A good captain never lies." John replied cheekily, which made the dancer laugh. "And hey, look, even if this whole 'us' thing doesn't work out, I want you to know that I'll only be a few blocks away. If you ever need anything, I'm close by. I'd rather have you call me and talk to me than destroy yourself with overwork." John reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "You're worth a three am phone call. Plus, you're really cute."

It took Sherlock less than a second to make a decision. He quickly smiled. "Are you free tonight?" He asked carefully.

John returned the grin, and held out his hand, which Sherlock gladly took. "For you, Sherlock, I'm free any time."


End file.
